(Don't) Ring the Wedding Bells
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: This is the wedding reception AU in which Yuuri Katsuki catches the bride's bouquet and (shortly after) gets smashed at a wedding reception, then dirty dances with his best friend, (sort of) seduces a (hot) platinum-haired trust-fund baby named Viktor, and ends up being hounded for his identity (by said trust-fund baby and his friends and family) on social media.
1. Chapter 1

I.

Isabella is really Phichit's friend, but Yuuri receives an invitation (to which he doesn't RSVP) and then Phichit asks him to be his plus one to the wedding. In response, Yuuri buys a new suit, finds an old, but comfortable set of presentable dress shoes, and slicks his hair back.

The new suit comes with a free tie, and Phichit sounds only a little mortified when Yuuri tells him, but he still (despite his griping about the matching pocket square) lets Yuuri wear it because the material is soft and silky and infinitely better than any other tie Yuuri owns (and also because Yuuri accepts to wear contact lenses instead of his glasses).

They're broke recent graduates, and Isabella planned a Spring wedding, so between the two of them, they buy the least expensive item in the registry: A set of gourmet wooden spoons made by some famous chef obsessed with butter and prosciutto. It's ironic, considering Isabella can't cook, but Yuuri still remembers how sweet and gracious she had been in college and decides to splurge because it's her day and he's _pretty_ sure Isabella once treated him to pizza when he was pulling an all-nighter with Phichit and he's always felt he owed her.

(That and (Yuuri hates himself for even thinking it) she's marrying the most annoying man in the world.

 _But he's rich and loves her more than anyone, except her parents,_ Phichit reminds him, like that (the rich part) makes it all better.)

II.

Viktor is _not_ J.J.'s friend.

(He almost considers getting that stitched on a handkerchief and going around the event blowing his nose.)

But he has an invitation to J.J.'s wedding, and their parents were old business contacts, so when his mother calls him to croon _'But Vitya,'_ Viktor decides he'll go, but he won't like it. And, he'll probably do his best to get drunk on vodka. Then his mother says ' _But Vitya, we already said you'd be_ delighted _to be one of the groomsmen_ ,' and he almost considers faking his own kidnapping, only he's already used that excuse to get out of the last family reunion (and go on a cross-European road trip with Chris and his expensive pink convertible), so he really doubts it'll work again. There's only so many times his mother will laugh indulgently and say _'Oh darling, don't stray too long!'_ and inject a cool half million into his bank account before forcing him to get a band of bodyguards.

(He returned the money, of course. Once he wasn't kidnapped anymore. Except then his father had said something that made Viktor almost too sure that his mother hadn't told his father he hadn't really been kidnapped, and his father _maybe_ thinks Viktor consensually slutted his way off the hook (thanks to some photos that made it into a grocery store tabloid) and with money intact, even if dignity destroyed. It's a good thing his father knows next to nothing about European male models. That, and worrying about Viktor's public relations, he leaves to Viktor's Uncle Yakov, much like he used to leave _groundings_ to his Uncle Yakov's wife (because Viktor's parents were suckers for a wibbly bottom lip).

But at least his father had brought out the expensive $2500 bottle of triple malt scotch whiskey as they didn't talk about the not-kidnapping and what-did-or-did-not-happen (definitely what didn't happen), and Viktor's father had been drunk enough to start showering him with praise and stories of his baby days and good-natured ribbing, and he had told Viktor all about his fatherly pride and trust in Viktor, because Viktor is "a good man" (even if Viktor thinks he's not). It's a good reminder of why Viktor loves his father.

His father loves him so unconditionally, even when he does stupid things. No one else, except his mother, loves him so perfectly.)

Apparently, J.J. didn't have anyone other than his parents' friends' children to fill in as his groomsmen, so Viktor's youngest sibling Yuri gets pulled into the act, too. His sister Mila doesn't have to participate in the wedding, but she (for some reason, or because she likes J.J. as a person) still decides to go.

III.

Yuri complains the entire time.

(Really, the _entire_ time.)

Viktor doesn't blame him. He'd probably complain, too, if he had to have all the formality and none of the fun, but Yuri is too young to drink, much less go through the strange protocol of J.J.'s stag party (or parties). But, again, this is J.J., so Viktor reminds his brother that none of this will be fun for anyone, least of all Chris, whose been made best man (only because Viktor refused and gave J.J. his best ice-queen-glare on top of an already almost insulting resting-bitch-face to get his point across).

(To be fair, Viktor had already accepted to give a toast to J.J. and Isabella's happiness while wearing his finest Armani in black. J.J. can't ask for more. That'd just be greedy. But he does ask for more, which leads to Viktor and J.J.'s other groomsmen to put together a groom's dance for the reception.)

Yuri's complaining only lasts until the Altin family arrives at the resort J.J.'s family has rented for the week to welcome all their guests and introduce them to Isabella. It's a strange affair because they all grew up going to the same country club. That's how Isabella met J.J. But J.J.'s parents are slightly oblivious, albeit sweet, and Isabella's family has less money than they do, so they naturally assume that she had spent most summers living in the smaller houses on the far side of the lake, or a different world from the Leroys.

Isabella's guests, though, don't all come from the country club. She has actual friends and they, like normal people, are coming just a day before the wedding. There's no pretense or strange expectation from Isabella's family that people that have never spent more than a dinner discussing potential investments should suddenly spend an entire week rubbing elbows at the pool while drinking funny colored cocktails. Viktor instantly loves them and spends all his time with them as opposed to the Leroys.

Yuuri, naturally, spends all his time with his friend – a teen DJ spinning records in Europe while his parents keep piling on the cash in Kazakhstan. Strangely enough, Yuri and Otabek, the Altin boy, don't _talk_ , not with their mouths _;_ instead, Viktor is almost certain they text each other for everything. They sit together by the pool, shades on their faces under the comfort of a large umbrella as they type on tiny phone screens. Sometimes they'll chuckle and look up, and then return to their phones. It's a cacophony of pings.

"Viktor, are you listening?" Chris kicks some water his way, and he shakes his head, pushing his platinum hair back.

"Yeah, sure," he lies, "We'll pick up J.J. at eight, pop open a bottle of Cristal, or whatever is in the limo, and keep him out until midnight or something."

"No strippers," Chris repeats, dipping his feet in the pool again as he scrolls through the e-mail application in his phone. Viktor had also received a copy of the instructions written by J.J. on what he expects his stag party to be like to truly encapsulate the whole concept of _J.J. Style_. Viktor will never understand how people ever spend any money on any piece of clothing that has a label that reads _J.J. Style_ , but he's too busy designing his own brand (and modeling it) to really care.

"Ew," Viktor waves him off in disgust, pulling himself up to rest his arms on the edge of the pool. Water droplets cling to his muscles. "I said I would take him out, not party with him. I don't even go to a strip club with you, and I like you. I've even eaten at a McDonalds for you."

"Oh stop it, you loved every minute of stuffing your mouth with that juicy commercial meat," Chris almost shimmies with each word. And Viktor laughs, just laughs and jumps up to grab his phone.

"Want me to take your picture?"

"If you insist," Chris smiles, jumping back into the pool for a few more poses before they have to pretend to be groomsmen.

IV.

Viktor sees the bride's half of the church and feels almost second-hand embarrassment. Again, he sees actual people, the type that want to be there and made the effort out of the proverbial goodness of their friendly or familial hearts. They're smiling vividly, drinking in every moment of the ceremony and the beauty of the bride. Isabella really is beautiful, and Viktor has to admit that the love J.J. has for her might slowly become his most redeeming quality.

Meanwhile, Viktor tunes out the entire ordeal, eyes glazing as he bumps shoulders with Chris to stay awake.

Next to him, Yuri has a hand stuck in his pocket. Viktor is pretty sure he's texting Otabek – they do have a habit of texting in emoticons.

V.

Yuuri always cries at weddings.

When Yuuko got married, he cried from the moment she started walking down the aisle and only took a short break while giving a speech at the reception. He picked up again, with a box of tissues safely tucked into the crook of his arm, when it was time to wave the new Nishigori family goodbye for their honeymoon. He'd then proceeded to get blackout drunk. It was almost a tradition by now.

Phichit hands him tissues for the duration of Isabella's ceremony. Thankfully, Isabella isn't a close friend. He finds the tears stop after a few minutes; by then, Phichit has started on the waterworks and can't get himself to stop.

Yururi is almost too busy to pay attention, admiring how everyone in the wedding party looks absolutely stunning in their crisp suits and long peach dresses. Standing one man away from the groom is a platinum blonde that Yuuri keeps admiring. He's pretty sure he's seen him in some magazine or other, just flipping through while in some doctor's waiting room. Leave it to J.J. to have models as his groomsmen.

"Okay, everyone gather around for the first bouquet toss!" Isabella smiles brightly, calling everyone to the center area where the reception is taking place. There are these beautiful long tables organized in verticals leading the viewer's eye towards the white stage filled with flowers.

Yuuri is too busy trying to get lost in the shuffle to notice when someone is getting a little too close.

"Come on, Viktor, in there with the rest!" Isabella pushes one of the groomsmen, who accidentally bumps into Yuuri.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he turns almost effortlessly, holding onto Yuuri's arm. And Yuuri forgets how to breathe for a moment. "I didn't step on you, did I?"

"Uh, no, it's fine," he replies, blinking before pulling his arm away to sneak into the center of the group. The stranger – Viktor – watches him with something akin to sympathy, like he's just too used to people being hit in the stomach by his beauty on the regular, and who knows, maybe that's the case. He is gorgeous.

"Okay, everyone ready?" Isabella yells out over her shoulder to the sea of people, and then the bouquet goes flying high over her head. Right into Yuuri's hands.

Yuuri can faintly hear Phichit crowing in the background. He looks down at the bouquet in his hands, just on the edge of disbelieving.

"Yay, Yuuri!" Isabella claps, almost jumping in her heels. "Next wedding's yours!"

When he looks up to give her a shy smile, Yuuri's eyes fall on Viktor again. He keeps replaying the name in his head. It's so fitting, almost aristocratic. Viktor is laughing, looking like he's enjoying everyone's reactions. Yuuri swears he almost hears him say: "Wow." But for all he knows, he could be making up the sound of his voice in the whistle and buzzing excitement of the crowd all around him.

VI.

"She told me she was gonna go full Beyoncé!" Phichit jumps up and down next to Yuuri. He's holding his phone tightly, just waiting to hit record. Yuuri tries to hold onto his arm to anchor him in place. Isabella made sure that they were in the front row, and Yuuri doesn't want to take more space than necessary with everyone standing around doubled up in a circle. He's surprised by how attached she has been to both of them, even asking Yuuri to help her make sure her garter was on correctly backstage.

J.J. is sitting smug on a chair in front of an empty area before the stage. He keeps flashing smiles everywhere.

Apparently, Isabella has a second bouquet because she's using it in her dance number. Sometimes Yuuri forgets that Isabella is a trained dancer and, despite her money, she's doing just fine working as a choreographer. Her bridesmaids are all obviously dancers, looking amazing in tan leotards with short, ruffled skirts, but Isabella – as she should, as the bride – rivals them all in a white leotard with a short skirt, all covered in expensive lace. She throws the bouquet to Phichit. There's no pretense as to who is supposed to catch it, and Phichit squeals, holding it tight to his chest as Isabella begins her dance number – an impressive combination of Lil' Mo's 4ever ( _I been your superwoman for so long, ready to be your wife_ ), Beyoncé's Upgrade U ( _Let me upgrade_ you,) and End of Time ( _Promise not to let you go, say you'll never let me go, say you'll never let me go_ ).

She dabs, shimmies, and whirls expertly, hips shaking like a pendulum the entire time. When the show is over, everyone's clapping, watching as Isabella lifts a delicate foot and sets her six-inch heel between J.J.'s spread legs on the chair. The garter has everyone's attention, shining with its own sparkles against the pale, shimmering stockings encasing her long legs.

J.J. wastes no time in pulling the garter off. Yuuri is grateful that he does it with his fingers. Maybe small miracles do exist. When J.J. throws it, a few of the men in the vicinity try to make a playful jump for the garter, but it misses them all and lands in someone's hands. The whole crowd explodes into _whoops_ and _ow-ow_ and whistles, and Yuuri laughs when people part in waves to show J.J. and Isabella that one of the groomsmen has caught the garter.

"Viktor!" J.J. laughs, clapping his hands.

Viktor twirls the garter on his index finger before pocketing it and taking a bow.

VII.

"Here, Yuuri!" Phichit yells as he hands Yuuri a glass of champagne. Yuuri knows Phichit is well into his third, but this will only be Yuuri's first glass.

Isabella is sticking to them like glue, which means everyone's eyes are on them. Yuuri downs the glass to keep his nerves low, and Phichit only whoops, grabbing another one as a waiter passes by and leaving it firmly planted in Yuuri's hands.

J.J.'s groomsmen have taken over the dancefloor for what everyone assumes will be the groom's dance. The platinum-haired could-be model – Viktor, Viktor, Yuuri keeps having to remind himself to think of him as a person, instead of an abstraction, is at the helm of the group. It seems that Isabella and J.J.'s guests include a lot of people that all know each other very well.

"We all grew up at the country club," Isabella explains, and Yuuri suddenly begins to understand why she must be standing close to them. Phichit and Yuuri are her _college_ friends. She displays them and introduces them proudly. This is the girl that left and went to Detroit to dance. This is the girl that made friends, _normal_ friends. Yuuri is touched whenever Isabella tells people: _These are my friends, Yuuri and Phichit._

A red-head in a gorgeous, form-fitting purple dress bumps into them, reaching for Isabella's arm as she yells: "That's my big brother! Udachi, Viktor! Udachi!"

A bunch of other young women follow suit. Apparently, Yuuri notes as he drinks his champagne, Viktor is very popular.

Yuuri also notices that the red-head looks no older than twenty. She's probably younger than that. A young, blonde teen joins her, scoffing as he cups his hands around his mouth and yells: "Oi, old man, don't shame the family name! Or else, I'm not related to you anymore!"

Viktor flinches, looking almost embarrassed as he waves their way, and then falls back into formation. Yuuri is surprised when their eyes meet again, and Viktor smiles at him, giving him a playful wink. The red-head next to Isabella stretches her neck around the bride to get a good look at Yuuri, who can feel her staring. His cheeks heat up as he pretends not to notice and downs his glass.

"Hi, I'm Mila! I think my brother likes you!" she yells over the noise of the crowd as the familiar base of N*Sync's classic _It's Tearing Up My Heart When I'm With You_ plays in the background, and the groomsmen break into the familiar shuffle and spin. It ends with Viktor pointing right towards J.J., who comes swaggering to stand in front of the group for a perfect rendition of the _It's Gonna Be Me_ , but it seems the group is far more entertained by the groomsmen. A tall green-eyed man – the best man, it seems – brings them all into a seamless transition into _Pop_ , just oozing sex as he takes some artistic liberties to show-off (with a playful slap) his ass. The claps recommence again. People start screaming when Viktor brings the group into _I Want You Back_. J.J. might as well be an after-thought, and Yuuri almost feels bad, if it wasn't because Isabella is clapping excitedly.

"Take the jacket off!" she yells, and Viktor seems more than happy to oblige, as he throws it her way. "I had the biggest crush on Viktor when I was little!" she yells at Phichit, who simply whistles his approval (saying, "I can see why!").

Yuuri decides maybe now's a good time to squirrel away. It looks like the dance is coming to an end, and Mila is already trying to shuffle her way towards Yuuri. The sound of _Bye Bye Bye_ chases him away as he goes in search of more alcohol.

(Phichit later tells him that Viktor pulled his sister to the dancefloor to dance to _Uptown Funk_ , and Yuuri feels something soft and happy blossom in his chest because he's a little brother himself, one who has always looked up to his big sister, probably much the way Mila seems to idolize Viktor. It's sweet that Viktor would dance with his sister instead of pulling some pretty girl to the dancefloor. After all, there were plenty of women (and men) impressed by his moves.)

VIII.

Phichit is on the verge of drunk and Yuuri is already beginning to feel a little tipsy when Viktor finds them.

"Hey, bouquet catchers," he smiles, bringing out the garter from his pocket. "Figured I'd introduce myself. I'm Viktor. Viktor Nikiforov."

"I'm Phichit!" Phichit yells, practically throwing his body towards Viktor in his enthusiasm. He's obviously had too much to drink and his shirt buttons are starting to come undone. Yuuri is beginning to suspect Phichit started losing clothing layers the moment Isabella nabbed him as a dance partner an hour ago. Viktor eyes Yuuri expectantly. It makes sense: People usually give out their names when asked. Yuuri is _not_ people, not when he's drunk and embarrassed. Drinking should loosen him up, but, more importantly, holding a glass gives his hands something to do and sipping keeps his mouth occupied.

Yuuri stays quiet, pretending that he's still sipping, until he notices that his glass is empty – only because Viktor takes it from his hand gently and grabs another one from a passing waiter.

"Thanks," Yuuri tells him, watching him through long, dark lashes and going back to nursing his glass.

"So," Viktor speaks to Yuuri, even as he keeps close tabs on Phichit as well. Phichit is looking closer to jumping back on the bar and stripping. (Yuuri thought they were over that phase 20 minutes ago! This had happened at the last wedding they had attended, too.) "This is an interesting dilemma because there's two of you. Usually, the garter catcher and the bouquet catcher dance together, or, you know, spend some time together having been thoroughly embarrassed and tapped as the next to get married."

Yuuri almost chokes.

"Not to each other," Viktor backtracks, embarrassed, and Yuuri notices the pink dusting his cheeks. He must be on the verge of tipsy, too. Viktor curses at himself in a foreign language just as Yuuri is beginning to turn his attention back to the bar. Is that Russian? Yuuri has always heard that Russians have a greater ability to withstand their alcohol, so maybe Viktor is fine, or maybe Yuuri has his potential ancestry all wrong. "I mean, would you like to dance?"

"Dance?" Yuuri repeats now more than a little hazy.

"I'd love to!" Phichit laughs, grabbing Yuuri's hand to pull him into the mob of people grinding on the dancefloor.

Maybe there's something to the idea of two bouquets. The two people that catch the bouquets can dirty dance with each other on the dancefloor, no need for a garter catcher at all.

(And that's how Yuuri ends up grinding his way on the dancefloor against his best friend, holding hands with Phichit as they sway to the music, until Isabella finds them, and then they give her a show while she sits on a chair and watches them practically strip. Phichit more so than Yuuri, though.

At least Yuuri still had his pants and shirt on at the end. He was just a little disheveled.)

IX.

Viktor groans, looking towards Chris dejectedly. He has somehow ended up sandwiched between Phichit and his gorgeous, nameless friend, whose hips have decided to take Shakira at face value and _not lie_.

"You look like you're having a little too much fun there," Chris laughs at him, snapping a few pictures.

"I think they're trying to kill me," Viktor yells back, eyes almost rolling back when Yuuri's hips grind a little harder. It's at that moment that Phichit seems to lose interest in dancing and in groping Viktor's ass. Phichit starts swaying on his own as he begins to put together a flower crown from his bouquet.

"Aww, that's so pretty, Phichit," Yuuri has turned around now, wrapping his arms around Viktor's neck to lift himself up and clinch tightly to Viktor's waist with his legs. Yuuri looks at his friend's new project from the safety of Viktor's shoulder. Soft fingers run through Viktor's hair as warm amber eyes caress his face. He can almost feel the touch. "Oh Vicchan, you're going to look so beautiful with a crown. You already look like a prince."

Viktor looks over Yuuri's head at Chris. He realizes almost too late that the only sound coming out of his mouth is a steady, dying shriek. It's a wholly dying sound, like a trickle of noise getting lost in the background, somewhere between the song's trumpets. Taking zero pity on Viktor's (enjoyable) misery, Chris laughs, resting a hand on Yuuri's lower back when he notices his thighs are about to lose the leverage they've gained on Viktor's waist.

"Hm, aim a little lower," Chris schools him. Before long, Yuuri's thighs – all hard and lean muscle – are wrapped around Viktor's waist, his heels locking him into position. "Well, Viktor, I must go! But enjoy the night!"

"Chris!" Viktor hisses, feeling a weight drop on his head. A flower crown. Phichit is back to hugging them both. "Chris, don't leave me!"

"What's wrong, Vicchan?" Yuuri presses their foreheads together.

"What's your name?" Viktor asks for the hundredth time. Somewhere around number forty, the stranger in his arms had laughed so prettily, he thought he heard wedding bells. By the eightieth time, he knew he was thoroughly in love. Right now, he feels on the verge of thoroughly fucked (on the dancefloor, literally).

(It had all started out so innocently, too.

Viktor really had tried to keep it classy.)

"I'm Yuuri."

"Yuri?" Viktor blinks. "Huh. My brother's name is Yuri."

"Not Yuri," Yuuri corrects him, licking his lips as he teaches him to elongate the u. Viktor stays still as he feels the gentle brush of lips against his own. "Yuuri. Y _uu_ ri. And you're Vicchan!"

"Vicchan. I don't know what that means, but you really seem to like calling me that, and I like that you like calling me that. You can call me whatever you want—"

"Yuuri, say it," Yuuri lets his thumb brush over Viktor's bottom lip.

"Yuuri," Viktor repeats, and it seems it's right, because the attempt earns him a lovely hip roll that almost sends him falling back. He's grateful for Phichit's weight against his back. "Yuuri, I think, I think I'm going to need to put you down in a moment before I potentially embarrass myself. But I really, _really_ want to continue this, when we're sober. Can I have your phone number?"

"Sorry, Vicchan. But I'm too drunk to rationally hand out my phone number."

(And, just like that, Viktor thought he heard his heart smash on the floor.

Really, it was J.J., who had dropped his champagne glass in his attempt to pull Viktor away from his two dance partners to take one last photo with Isabella before it was time to bid the groom and bride farewell on their honeymoon.

"Bye Vicchan!" Yuuri waved at him with a sweet, drunk smile.

Viktor pouted as he was pulled away by the cuff. "Bye, Yuuri…")

X.

A few weeks later, Yuuri is typing in his apartment's living room when he hears things crashing in Phichit's bedroom. It's readily followed by Phichit jumping out of his room and rolling into the living room. He bounces excitedly on the sofa, waving his phone in front of Yuuri's face: "Look what Isabella just sent me!"

Yuuri takes the phone from Phichit, gasping when he sees the screenshot of a Facebook thread about a photo of him. He hadn't been tagged, thankfully, but it slowly dawns on him that it's not because the uploader was being kind. Chris Giacometti just didn't have him as a Facebook friend.

In the picture, Yuuri is wrapped tightly around a person tagged as Viktor Nikiforov, legs fully off the ground and locked around a tapered waist. Their foreheads are pressed together. Anyone that didn't know they had both been drunk might have mistaken the haze in their eyes for sweet, indiscriminate, gentle, almost sleepy affection.

Phichit was also in the picture, arms wrapped tightly around them both and practically dozing off against Viktor's back.

 **Chris Giacometti**

We're still looking for Viktor Nikiforov's Cinderella. If found, please PM.

1,050 likes

Seen by 2,450 people

 **Mila Nikiforov** That's my future brother-in-law!

 **Viktor Nikiforov** That's my future husband! Someone please tell me who is that boy(?)! He said his name was Yuuri. Anyone with info is eligible for a monetary reward.

 **Chris Giacometti** IDK. I asked J.J. He said he knew the one hugging your back, but not your bae.

 **Mila Nikiforov** Ooh let's ask Isabella Leroy! Izzy, Viktor is looking for this cute Japanese boy that danced with him at your wedding. Help us before someone cons my brother out of $100,000? Thanks!

 **Yuri Nikiforov** Is that a tent in your pants? Gross! TAKE THIS DOWN!

"He's offering $100,000 to find you?" Phichit gasped, "Oh my god! Isabella says he's totally for reals. Yuuri! Yuuri, you have to talk to him!"

Yuuri simply squeaked, turning a bright shade of red as he took the phone back and stared at the picture. He had a feeling this was only going to snowball if he didn't take control of the situation and fast.

 **TBC - Potentially**


	2. Chapter 2

XI.

J.J. stretched on the bed, rolling on his side to press lazy kisses against his wife's bare shoulder. The very idea that it was his _wife_ he was marking with his lips made him feel more than a little dizzy. Isabella barely stirred as he nipped at her neck. "Your phone keeps ringing," he groaned, eyeing the flashing fading blue light of the cellphone in question, "pick it up already."

Isabella peered at him from other a mountain of pillows over her head, shoving him off with a violent kick, "not mine this time, babe. Yours."

J.J. frowned, reaching blindly over her back for the phone. He rested an elbow on her back (earning himself an angry 'J.J., you're heavy! Fuck off!') as he read the caller ID. It took him a few seconds to blink blearily and realize it was Viktor.

"It's Viktor!" he yelled (and was promptly shoved off the bed, as Isabella pushed up on her elbows with a 'That's it!'), making sure to keep the phone held high as he rolled to the ground. Viktor Nikiforov hadn't called J.J. since they were children and Viktor had found out J.J.'s family poodle had given birth to a set of precious puppies that J.J. refused to give up.

(Isabella knows the story well, but she listens attentively anyway.

J.J.'s parents had known even then that their son had an abnormal hero-worship complex when it came to Viktor. And Viktor, of course, had had both motive and reward to push him – if he convinced J.J. to give up the puppies, then he would, of course, have first pick.

She cringes (feeling immeasurably sorry for her husband and angry at Viktor) when she hears J.J. muse out loud (so vulnerable) whether Viktor would call him more if he didn't bring up the fact that their dogs are related.)

"Yup, he probably hasn't called you since _because_ you don't let him forget your dogs are related," Isabella scoffed (because J.J.'s brain had come to a screeching halt right at the precipice of a verbal dam now overflooding with stories about Viktor), staring down at him from the bed. "He probably doesn't call because you're so embarrassing. You didn't even realize you said that last part about the dogs out loud, did you? – Damn it, J.J. It's _still_ ringing. He must need something. Either pick up, or shut it off, but stop staring at it. I'm trying to sleep."

She dropped back down onto the bed, snuggling against the blankets.

J.J. finally pressed the phone to his ear, not quite certain what greeting he'd use until it's prime time: "Uh, he—ah, Viktor, hey man, what's going on?"

Isabella rolled her eyes at her husband's penchant for turning brainless the moment Viktor Nikiforov was involved. It was all thanks to an embarrassing man-crush that has _crushed_ J.J. one too many times, including when, some years ago, the only way J.J. made it into the list for Viktor's birthday party in the Netherlands was as Isabella's plus one.

"No, no, no worries. You call any time," he rested his back against the side of the bed. " _Any_ time. Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, man, that was some party! – Izzy? Oh, you want to talk to Isabella…"

("That's a little too much emphasis on your availability, _honey_ ," she whispers angrily at him, crawling on her arms to the edge of the bed. She plucks the phone from his hand: "Viktor, I already told Chris I'm not handing out Yuuri's information. I'm not even going to confirm if he has a social media page or not." She rubs at her temples, flopping on her back to stare at the ceiling. "I told him you wanted to connect already. He didn't get back to me. Viktor, I'm not going to even entertain that question as serious and if I hear from Mila that you're playing around in a hospital, I will personally tell Yuuri that you're psychotic—will you stop crying? I know you're faking it. I'm going back to sleep. Stop calling. I'm on my honeymoon…! Oh, yes, we did get the champagne. It was super thoughtful, thanks, honey. Yes, but now, really, leave us alone. At least for the week.")

XII.

Phichit was convinced Yuuri was a sadist. How else could he not cave and call Viktor Nikiforov already?

"Are you really going to wear a facemask in the summer?" Phichit asked, flipping through his phone as he watched his friend attempt, once again, to cover up before going out into the world of people (with cellphones and access to Facebook and Twitter) who had very likely already seen Yuuri's face in any of the countless memes floating through the Internet (including Phichit's favorite, which had Yuuri photoshopped from one of Viktor's posted Instagram photos from the reception and relocated to countless ridiculous locations, including the moon and even ' ViktorNikiforov look! Yuuri was on stage with Rihanna last night!'). Taking control of the situation for Yuuri Katsuki had devolved from ignoring everything and shutting down his Facebook and unused Instagram to wearing disguises in public. Phichit wasn't sure what part of that gave Yuuri any feeling of control.

"How else am I gonna stop people from recognizing me?" Yuuri huffed, lacing up his sneakers so tightly, Phichit was sure he'd give his feet bruises. "It's only until I get to Minako's for class."

"I don't know how you're managing to keep your students from telling on you."

Yuuri blushed, "it's really not that hard. Most working people don't want to announce on social media that they're taking pole dancing classes. Or that they're spending discretionary income on classes with a professional."

"Ah! So that's why Minako wanted me to cover your hip hop class," Phichit nodded, feeling proud now that he was slowly unraveling Yuuri's strategy, especially because it was going to get only more difficult once (if, really,) Yuuri decided to go get that 'grown-up' job at that consulting firm that had been trying to recruit him since the start to their last year in school. (In a way, Viktor's decision to hound Yuuri on every social media channel available to a hot, rich, young model was keeping Yuuri tied to his first love – _dance_ – and that, on its own, was wonderful, even if the rest verged on the ridiculous.) "But what are you going to do once ballet lessons start up again?"

"They're children, Phichit," Yuuri whispered, reaching for his duffel bag, "I doubt eight-year-olds have phones or know what memes are..."

(Phichit didn't have the heart to remind Yuuri that Yuuko's girls were five and already had the capability and knowledge to upload things to the Internet. But, Yuuri was sort of right. The girls had tablets, which they used to regularly Skype Yuuri. Tablets, not phones, but close enough.)

Phichit shrugged, reaching for his phone again to retweet a picture of Yuuri photoshopped twerking – well, more like grinding with Miley Cyrus.

XIII.

Mila was convinced her brother was slowly losing his mind (or a step closer to it), and was no closer to finding Yuuri than when they had started their social media campaign.

Viktor Nikiforov lounged on a chaise in his favorite Desmond Merrion slate gray suit (chosen perfectly to match the faded, brittle pale white and pink peonies and roses on the dying flower crown resting on his head), one leg haphazardly thrown to a side to match lazy arm grazing the floor with a half-empty bottle of expensive vodka.

With his free hand, he flipped though his phone and searched both Instagram and Twitter, squinting behind the tinted lenses of his Raybans in the darkness of his bedroom (kept even darker thanks to the thick muslin curtains he'd had installed because 'Only the shadows can understand the void in my heart, Mila!') to avoid missing any potential tips left in the #Looking4Yuuri stream. He had Blame It on the Alcohol ( _And now I'm knowin' she tipsy, she put her body on me, and she keeps staring me right in my eyes_ ,) playing on loop, sometimes pausing his search to half-sob particularly emotionally stirring set of lyrics ( _No tellin' what I'm gon' do, baby, I would rather show you, what you been missin' in your life when I get inside_ ).

Yuri Nikiforov cringed, but kept filming before turning the phone camera on himself: "Welcome to day forty-five of #Searching4Yuuri. ( _Vitya, stop. Mila, sing with me: Shawty, I ain't trippin', I jus' wanna please ya._ ) My stupid brother has, once again, decided to betray his age by playing an old ass song about getting drunk and trying to get laid, as inspired by his own pathetic love life, which has brought us a new hashtag: #Help4Vitya."

"If you looking like a model, when them broke fellas holla, tell 'em, bye! _Tell them bye_ , Yuuri, I'll buy you all the drinks and a boat with a cooler to _keep_ all your drinks," Viktor moaned and it was such a heartbreaking sound that Mila stood from her spot reading by the fireplace to usher her little brother away.

"Wait, why a boat? Why not just buy him a cooler _with_ drinks, or take him to dinner?" Mila asked (and almost wished she hadn't when Viktor replied, "Because if we live on a boat, he'll have to wear shorts. Have you not seen his thighs?"). (And Mila had to admit that she had, in fact, seen Yuuri's thighs flex under the poorly tailored suit. At least there was logic to the train wreck in her brother's lovesick brain.) But the question alone betrayed how she should have cut-off Viktor somewhere around play number thirty. He was completely intoxicated by the music, considering he hadn't had a drop of the vodka. The bottle was more decorative than useful (though she was starting to consider slamming it over Viktor's head). "Okay, Yuri, that's enough. Can't you see Vitya is hurting? Turn it off."

"Okay," Yuri shrugged, pocketing his phone. "But it's the only way to keep the hashtag trending."

"Don't pretend you're trying to be helpful," Mila glared at him, rolling her eyes, "You just want to embarrass Vitya."

"Vicchan," he reminded them. "I'm Vicchan!"

Yuri arched an eyebrow (mostly because he wasn't even filming anymore), "Oh yeah, hag, because he needs me for _that_. Okay, _Vicchan_ , why don't you tell Mila what you'd prefer: I can either post this video and keep people looking for your stupid pig, or I can delete it and let the hashtag die without new content."

Viktor scrambled to sit, dropping the bottle as he took off his glasses to give his brother a pointed (almost threatening) glare: "You know what you need to do. I didn't just spend the last five minutes acting a fool while wearing dead flowers on my head for you _not_ to post it. My suit now reeks of old bath water. Remember the mission."

Mila gasped (albeit partly in relief), "Vitya! I thought you were really suffering."

"I am, but if I've learned anything in the last forty-five days is that the normal tactics aren't working. I need to up the ante, catch Yuuri's attention and draw on his feelings of guilt to attract him away from the shadows and into the light, Mila." Viktor sighed, running a hand through his hair (only to cringe when he belatedly realized that he had, finally, managed to destroy the flower crown as petals rained over his shoulders). "Trust me, this is the only way."

"Oh- _kay_?" Mila worried at her bottom lip, studying him carefully and wondering if it was time to ask her parents to have him committed (in a hospital, not in a relationship). "I don't know who either of you are anymore," she pointed at them both. "Poor Yuuri. No wonder he doesn't want to come out of hiding. I'd be terrified of you two, too! – I'm going to message Izzy and tell her to really not to tell you anything. To think I was trying to help…"

"Wait, wait, Mila, think carefully about what you're about to do to your _dorogoy starshiy brat_."

"My dear older brother? – I don't even know who you are anymore. Fake crying to tasteless American club music, wasting vodka, and even trying to buy a boat. That last one, Vitya." She looked almost hurt, but Viktor knew well that she was mostly disappointed. Her bottom lip wibbled. "You know you have very unattractive knees and the sailor look clashes with your hair, white on white on white… Do you _not_ remember the Family Portrait of 2006?"

Viktor looked mildly remorseful.

(That had been a terrible year for Family Portraits.

Of course, Ana Nikiforova would never throw away a photo with her babies, but simply perished at the thought of showcasing it in the family gallery wall (leading only too many guests to curiously question the empty slot for 2006, which Ana tended to dismiss with a nervous laugh and a (rather unintentional) shot of champagne). That was the _boat_ -themed year. And after the photo session, everyone agreed Viktor's pale head of hair should never be photographed right under the noon sun for fear of blinding spectators. Not that his hair had been the only one to blame.

Really, no one knew how a sailing session in the family yacht had ended in such tragedy.

But Viktor had been 14-years-old then, and the owner of a rather frightening and sudden growth spurt. Taking fashion risks had been more than a necessity with how few clothes had still fit him that summer. Apparently, a pristine, Navy-white inspired ensemble had been catastrophic.)

"You really think I can't pull off that much white _now_? – I'm not as pale as I was then. I tan now."

"You'd blind him out there," Mila collected her books, hugging them close to her chest. She pushed a strand of hair to curl around her ear. "There's a reason Mama always bought you blacks, greys, and blues. You're a _winter_ , Vitya. As in, you might as well be snow under the sun with the way light reflects off you."

"Okay, scratch the boat idea. Yuri, we have to film it again," Viktor dropped dramatically over the chaise again, this time resting a dead arm over his eyes – Raybans completely forgotten by the bottle of vodka. (And even Mila had to admit the dry flower petals were working for him, adding a certain quality to an already heartbreaking scene. She was almost sure #RIPFlowerCrown would trend next.) "Yuri?"

"Sorry, I'm just trying to think about how much bleach I'm going to need to get over you singing the words _fill another cup up, feelin' on yo butt, what._ This is too sick to capture on video again, even for me. And I hate you."

Viktor blinked, sitting up to arch a fine eyebrow at his little brother, "I didn't sing that verse. But I love it!"

"I know, but I throw up a little in my mouth whenever I hear _get inside_ now," Yuri gagged almost immediately after spitting out the words, and Mila believed him (and had to give him an A for effort). "Maybe some variety would be nice. I hate myself for suggesting it."

"Yes, right," Viktor waved him off, pining on the chaise again.

(And even Mila had to admit that her brother had a lovely profile.)

Mila shook her head, deciding it was a good moment to exit the room. "You two are terrible people. Poor Yuuri."

XIV.

#RIPFlowerCrown was trending, and Phichit was starting to get (almost as) desperate (as the Nikiforov clan).

"Can you please send him a Facebook message? Tweet? A smoke signal? – Something, anything!" he dropped to his knees, throwing his arms around Yuuri's legs to anchor him in place. "Yuuri, baby, please have some compassion! He's drunkenly singing old Jamie Foxx songs!"

( _And killing it._ But Phichit was sure that didn't need to get mentioned.

Yuuri was only human, and Phichit knew better than to poke fun at his friend for his 'secret' stash of Viktor magazine cut-outs. It wasn't Phichit's fault the hamsters had escaped the cage and gone rummaging for a new nest under Yuuri's bed. Phichit's hamsters had good taste; it was only natural they'd choose to cuddle up with shreds of Viktor's chiseled nose and high-cheekbones. It made it easier to find them thereafter.)

Phichit practically had this conversation with Yuuri daily, usually with Isabella on the phone complaining that the Nikiforovs were blowing up her phone again (and could Yuuri at least call Viktor to tell him he wasn't interested?). But sometimes talking to Yuuri Katsuki was like talking to a wall, and not because his thighs and butt were hard and thick as brick.

(As best friend, Phichit was allowed to notice and make such comments, much like he was allowed to tell Yuuri to stop wearing jeggings because, really, regular jeans got the message across just fine. Anything tighter was just cruel and greedy. Except for tights. Tights were acceptable because Yuuri was a dancer.

There were rules. As a fellow dancer, Phichit knew first-hand.)

Yuuri tried to shake one of his legs to brush Phichit off. Unsuccessful, he punched a few more shirts into his bag, getting ready for a work trip (to work with an undisclosed superstar, which Phichit already knew was Leo de la Iglesia, thanks to his daily calls with Isabella): "No. He's ridiculous."

"That's a little harsh," Phichit worried at his bottom lip. "He's in love."

"He doesn't even know me!"

"Technically the whole world sort of knows you now? – You're a meme! Or memes!"

Yuuri rolled his eyes, zipping up his bag.

"Not helping, Phichit. That's his fault, too. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have my mother ask why there's a photoshopped picture of me dressed like Carmen Sandiego? Apparently, that's not a joke that translates well into Japanese without background information so now my parents know I got drunk at a party and almost gave a stranger a lap dance and that now I'm in hiding."

"To be fair, you gave Isabella, your friend, a lap dance, but you technically dry humped Viktor. So, really, you dry humped a stranger and gave him an erection that has its own hashtag!"

Yuuri frowned, "again, _not_ helping."

(Phichit snorted, trying to feign innocence. He hadn't been able to help himself, though.

That _Where in the World is Yuuri?_ meme had earned him a good handful of hundreds of Tumblr followers.)

Phichit squeezed tighter, "Yuuri, please? – Think of Vicchan the poodle, that adorable tiny dog now on his way from Japan to Detroit and in need of a father figure that can buy him a doggie treats company!"

"You're asking me to date Viktor because of my dog? How exactly does that make any sense?" Yuuri groaned, dragging Phichit towards the living room as he tried to hop his way out. "Let go already."

"You didn't see Viktor's video from four days ago? You remember, it was the one Chris G. sent me after he found my Instagram and Facebook. Viktor was introducing you to Makkachin, only the second cutest poodle in the world. Apparently, that dog has his own dog food brand. Seems that entire family has some kind of side hustle," Phichit tapped his chin, releasing his friend. He stumbled to stand and follow Yuuri into the living room. (Vicchan the poodle only had home court advantage in cuteness, but Phichit was a pretty good judge of _cute_ and tiny dogs were cuter by default.) "He's puppy daddy material, Yuuri! Don't you want someone that will walk your dog in the winter?"

Yuuri laughed, "seriously? Is that even a thing?"

"It was trending four days ago, so I'm gonna say yes," Phichit sat down on the sofa, "Did you e-mail me the care instructions like you said you would? – I can't find 'em."

"Oh, right," Yuuri sighed, pulling out his cellphone. "Thanks again for picking him up and taking care of him these first few days. I wouldn't have even taken this job with Vicchan's move, but Leo called (Ha! Phichit knew it!) and this whole thing with Viktor is really cutting into my income and I really need money now that there's going to be pet fees added to my portion of the rent. I'm really hoping he'll call it quits sometime soon, or else I'm going to have a really hard time applying for jobs."

"Don't even worry about it. He'll have a blast. I have doggie playdates set-up with all the dogs in the building and one dog-friendly cat. And, I'll facetime you as soon as he gets in so he has a familiar face waiting at his new home," Phichit smiled. It would be good for Yuuri to finally be reunited with his dog after so many years. "Don't stress! Just think, Minako will take him and the hamsters after about couple of weeks, and then I'll meet you in New York for the best work vacation ever!"

"You're right. It's only three weeks. Vicchan will be fine," Yuuri took off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. "I should be more worried about me, really. It's only a matter of time before you jump on the meme bandwagon, and then who can I trust?"

Phichit hid his phone, feeling more than a little guilty.

XV.

"I think we should give up," Yuri Nikiforov plopped down on an armchair, legs splayed out in front of him as he scrolled through the #Help4Vitya tag. It was now filled with memes of the pig hugging all sorts of random items, including a sandwich and a very intimidating shoulder massager. "We're no closer to finding the fatso than we were when we started and Isabella has no interest in telling us anything."

"Stop calling him fat!" Viktor rolled on his side, still holding tight to his phone as he rested his head on Chris' lap and sobbed into his poodle's fur. Makkachin didn't even bat an eyelash or shake his tail in surprise. This was certainly the new normal. "He's not fat. H—he's curvy. And beautiful!"

"You're in denial," Yuri rolled his eyes, deciding to flip back to his WhatsApp conversation with Otabek.

"Whatever you say can't hurt me because," Viktor thrust his phone in the air, the loud guitar riffs of Kelly Clarkson's Stronger ( _You tried to break me, but you see, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger_ ) making Makkachin bark in duet. Chris nodded approvingly, patting Viktor's head to get him to lay back down (and provide, in his infinite wisdom, some harsh truth, "Yes, yes, Viktor, now why don't you take the song's advice and try _moving on_?")

Yuri smiled triumphantly.

"Oh Vitya," Ana Nikiforova crooned as she glided into the parlor, making a beeline for the sofa. She waved Chris (and Makkachin) away, taking her son's head to lay it on her lap. The dog returned almost instantly to crawl into an empty corner by Viktor's feet. She ran long fingers through her son's platinum hair, watching the strands disappear between her knuckles. "Are you still sad about not finding your Yuuri?"

Chris sighed, "sad is an understatement. He's desperate, Ana. We really are nowhere near close to finding Yuuri. You'd think 100,000 American dollars would inspire a little more creativity than funny Internet pictures. Maybe it is time to give up."

"Oh, nonsense," Ana hummed gently, "it's like I always say, if 100,000 won't do it…?"

Viktor remained listless and non-responsive, sighing forlorn as he stared at the screen of his phone (until he jumped at the pinch his mother gave him.)

"You double it?" Viktor tried, arching a curious eyebrow as he looked up at his mother.

"… yes, you double it!" Ana finished with a happy chirp, heart-shaped smile looking more than a little dangerous when added to the shiny glint in her eye. (Yuri looked up, thoroughly confused.) And Chris, for once, wasn't surprised (though he wasn't exactly sure how throwing _more_ money at the Internet would help them any more than it had to date).

"You _double_ it? What kind of stupid idea is that?" Yuri exploded, almost dropping his phone.

"You're right," Ana nodded sagely, steepling her fingers to press the tips against her bright, red lips (with a fresh layer of Chanel, of course). "We should triple it!"

"No. That'd be tacky and scream desperate, which I am, but I don't want him to know that," Viktor worried at his bottom lip. "Oh! A quarter million. Now, quarters are classy. Saying _a quarter of a million dollars_ has a certain flow that _three-hundred thousand dollars_ just doesn't have."

"That's the spirit!" Ana beamed, happy to see her son in brighter spirits. She brushed Viktor's hair back, frowning, "has your forehead always been this big, honey? – Maybe we should take you to see our stylist. I'm sure André could do something about a receding hairline."

Viktor's arms wrapped around his head: "Mama!"

She hugged him tightly, "oh, honey, don't worry. You're still the most handsome boy in the world. ("Hey!" Yuri griped.) And so is our baby Yura. And we're going to find your Yuuri, especially now that you've decided to let your Mama help."

Viktor frowned, "what, I'm not, Mama, no. Mama, just no."

"But Mila said," his mother pouted, and Viktor turned to find his sister trying to hide behind some heavy curtains.

"Mila! I can do it on my, Mama," he sighed, sitting to take his mother's hands and bring them close to his chest, "It's not that you're not wonderful, but we've got it handled. Really. Promise."

Mila whined, peeking out from her hiding spot, "Mama, just show him the video."

Ana looked the epitome of hurt: "But he says he doesn't _need_ me to help, kisa. I wouldn't want to impose. I'll just have to stand by and watch my Vitya hurt."

(And Chris had to acknowledge, then, that Viktor was his mother's son. At forty-something with three kids, Ana was a fox (and extra as hell) – tall and statuesque with legs for days, bright red, heart-shaped lips, and long, side-swept blonde hair kept either in a ponytail or comfortable, but stylish braid, the type she'd imposed on Viktor until he was eighteen.

She was also an impressive force of nature, almost a tornado in her ability to uproot any obstacle in her way.

There were plenty of pictures celebrating Ana as matriarch, having been responsible for carefully curating the spectacular careers of her three (still young) children after a successful run as a media mogul herself. She had a model in Viktor, a designer in Mila, and an athlete in Yuri, the baby of the family. Even Makkachin had been incorporated into a family business with dog food and training manuals: The Happy Poodle Regimen. If anybody could find Yuuri, it would be Ana (former investigative journalist turned Russia's Oprah).

Chris had a feeling she hadn't disappointed this time, either.

Though he also understood his friend's apprehension.

Ana wouldn't just find Yuuri. She would probably crush him with love. If the poor boy was already terrified of Viktor, he'd barely survive Ana, who was just as smitten with the idea of a son-in-law as Viktor was of a potential-husband and puppy-father.)

"If you have something on the pig, by god, show it to him and put us all out of our misery!" Yuri yelled, until one of the family cats dropped on his lap (courtesy of Chris, who knew just how to shut him up).

"Well," Ana pouted, but then smiled, "if you all insist."

She pulled out her phone, practically shaking with excitement as she rummaged through her e-mail. Mila was sure her mother was taking her time to make her brother suffer, but she had seen the video, and almost instantly dragged her mother to the room, lying that Vitya would, of course, take her help. Anything to bring their wild goose chase to a close.

"He's a dancer, Vitya! As in, he's a professional! He was in this cute little music video," she hit play. "Oh, he's going to be such a lovely addition to the family. Unfortunately, none of you came out musical, but I can already see the potential endorsements. Do you think he'd consider filming some hip-hop work-out videos? – I'd love to take lessons from him!"

("Hey, I play the electric violin!" Mila reminded her.

"I can dance! I'm just too dignified to dance in front of you peasants," Yuri scoffed, scratching behind his cat's ears.)

Chris almost choked on his own spit.

 _Cute_ was not the term he would've used.

Of course, how had they been such idiots? – Yuuri Katsuki. As in (super private, down-to-earth, ballet/hip-hop/pole-dancing) choreographer Yuuri Katsuki ( _Detroit's Finest Inc._ ). As in principal dancer in Leo de la Iglesia's summer tour two years ago, and his (and, if rumored was to be believed, also Britney Spears') "work-out secret" (and, wow, Britney did look great in Vegas now). Chris studied Viktor's face, watching him completely light up as he took the phone and started walking the expanse of the room with it, cooing as Makkachin followed behind him, "Oh, he's so beautiful and flexible and _wow_ , I didn't know it was possible to do the splits upside down... _Amazing_ , Makka, look at our Yuuri! There's so many videos!"

 _Yuuri Katsuki: Best Pole Moves_

(Taking out his own cellphone, Chris read through the comments. They were all such idiots.

Of course, no one had come forward to give information on Yuuri Katsuki. He was incredibly private, and no one would've thought to send publicly available YouTube videos and information. Everyone had given them more credit than they deserved and thought, of course, that they would've recognized Katsuki Yuuri, owner of a set of hips that could move like pistons (probably a trademark description). Suddenly, the memes made a lot more sense. On stage with Rihanna, indeed. No wonder she had retweeted it.)

"Yes, please, or else how are we going to book tickets to Detroit?" Ana asked innocently.

"Detroit?" Viktor arched an eyebrow. Makkachin barked.

"That's what it said on the address posted on the YouTube channel. They're all from this one dance studio. I imagine he must be an instructor, but I doubt they're going to give us his information on the phone," she replied, checking the lacquer of her nails. "Honestly, Vitya, I'm a little disappointed you didn't find this beautiful boy with how exposed he is."

(Literally. The video playing now had Yuuri stripping off his shirt.)

"Actually, we might have more luck going to New York," Chris was already sending a fast text to an old friend. "Now that I recognize him, I know, actually, I dated his old boss' manager. Leo de la Iglesia, you remember, Viktor? We partied with him at the Grammy's? He's a friend of Isabella's. She's choreographed a lot of stuff for him, and Yuuri Katsuki has danced a lot with him. His birthday party is this coming weekend. He's finally turning 21, but he's also working on a new project. I wouldn't be surprised if he's enlisted their help and… Isabella's Facebook says she's definitely in New York! She just had brunch with J.J., so they're obviously home."

"Hey, Beka's DJing that party! I'm so going!" Yuri pumped an arm in the air.

"We have to go to New York, then!" Viktor beamed, "Chris, you're amazing!"

"That's brilliant! Then you will all go to New York!" Ana clapped. "I'll go take care of logistics. Mila, Yuri, start packing. Chris, call your friends and see if you can track down this Iglesia person, and Vitya…"

Viktor waited patiently for instructions, kneeling to rub noses with his dog.

Ana worried at her bottom lip, "see if you can find a fashionable hat. I'm still worried about how visible your forehead is right now, honey."

XVI.

"Y—You must have me confused with someone else, s—sorry!" Yuuri stammered his apologies, forgetting his sandwich on the counter as he rushed out of the café (taking only a half-second break to pull the hood over his head again). He tried to keep a steady pace, keeping his head down to avoid bringing attention to himself (which included trying not to flinch whenever a teenager took a break from a screen to check whether to turn or cross).

(Yuuri had assumed New York would be a haven filled with enough people too busy shuffling in between flitting thoughts and endless blocks to ignore their shoulder-rubbing neighbors. But Yuuri had failed to remember that, even if everyone in New York City was too busy looking down (or straight ahead) to notice his face, they were also all studying their phones and (almost by default) the handful of memes that had cropped up about Yuuri all over social media.)

He'd been careless. But he'd been hungry and rushing to get to Isabella's studio.

Meanwhile, #Help4Vitya was trending _again_ (as was #Searching4Yuuri) and prompting Yuuri to question whether _he_ was the one who needed help (from the police). He pushed the door to the studio open, relieved to find Phichit and Isabella already there with coffee and rainbow bagels – one of the New York culinary delights Isabella was determined to introduce to their palates. The two were obviously conspiring. Yuuri was (instantly) on alert (and not just because the bagels were infringing on his diet).

"Hey guys, sorry I'm late. I was facetiming with Minako and Vicchan at a coffee shop and then someone recognized me," he dropped his duffel bag on the ground, marginally confused when his friends said nothing and openly stared as he went over to the barre to stretch. Slowly, Yuuri slipped off the facemask he'd been toting and stripped off the hooded sweatshirt he'd been wearing to reveal a thin white, cotton t-shirt. "Is there a reason you're both giving me the silent treatment?"

"Have you seen the new reward offer?" Isabella asked, voice as crisp as her newly applied layer of red lipstick. She shrugged off a jean jacket before beginning to roll her shoulders back. "It's gone up significantly."

Phichit followed Isabella's lead, setting down the box of glittery bagels to slip off his sweatshirt and start stretching on the ground.

"Oh?" Yuuri tried to remain nonchalant, stretching a muscled leg over the length of the barre.

"Quarter of a million dollars," Isabella hummed, reaching for her phone to start blasting Beyonce's 7/11 ( _Girl I'm tryna kick it with you_ ). "Mila says it was her mom's idea, actually. She found your videos, and now Viktor pretty much has a _carte blanche_ so long as he brings back a son-in-law." She chuckled, reaching for her coffee. "Oh and there's a new meme out – now they're photoshopping Viktor out and having you hug things. Mostly phallic shaped objects."

"Like a baguette," Phichit chirped (and Yuuri arched an eyebrow, staring at his friends with obvious confusion from the reflection of the mirror). "Yeah, we don't get it either."

"This is getting out of hand," Yuuri sighed, switching legs. "I'm starting to generate more memes than that website with the cats. That liked burgers. Or something."

"It's _been o_ ut of hand and now he actually knows who you are," Phichit snorted (and decided it was for the best not to correct Yuuri on his pop culture illiteracy about the _website with the cats_ while he was down and probably hungry), pulling himself by his elbows over to the box of bagels. He studied each carefully before picking one (and completely ignoring his mouth was now a glitter bomb) as he said, "You should call him."

"I don't have his number," Yuuri shrugged, trying to keep his head down.

(It wasn't like Yuuri hadn't thought about it. But he wasn't exactly sure what would happen if he did. Chances were that the chase would be more exciting than the conquest to Viktor, and then Yuuri would be left holding himself together and trying to surmise the damage to his reputation and maybe a little bit to his heart.

Yuuri wasn't actually living under a rock. He'd watched each of Viktor's videos, some multiple times, especially the ones where Viktor stopped putting on a show for a hashtag and began talking to the camera like he was trying to search inside Yuuri's soul. But love through a screen did not translate to love in reality. Yuuri knew this only too well from his failed experience with online dating.)

Isabella beamed, "do you want it? – I've had Vitya's number on speed dial ever since we were pre-teens and got our first phones!"

"Uh, no, that's okay," Yuuri backtracked, face flushing bright pink. "I don't think this could escalate any more than it already has, right? – He'll get bored soon enough."

Phichit hummed. "I don't know. We're going on Day 91 of #Searching4Yuuri. What do you think Isabella?"

"Well," she tapped her chin.

(Isabella could remember the last time Viktor Nikiforov had been this infatuated with someone.

They had been children still, or Isabella had been a child, whereas Viktor had slowly started morphing into a gorgeous teen, wading into a pool of emotions and hormones that had led him to the shores of a charming thirteen-year-old obsessed with soccer. He'd been the son of banker, there for the entire summer, much like them. Viktor had made it his personal mission to smother him with affection, practically suffocating him with heart-shaped smiles and hair flips. Viktor had been tireless, not even giving up after the summer was over.

Once he'd recruited Mama Ana Nikiforova, booking that trip to Chicago to cheer for his love at a Middle School cross-county game had been easy. The poor boy asking his parents to send him to boarding school to put some distance between him and Viktor had been heartbreaking, but everyone knew Viktor would never have won _that_ battle with Ana.

She liked her babies close.)

"Sorry, Yuuri, but if Mama Ana has been recruited to help, it's only a matter of time until he finds you. Viktor is stubborn and obsessive, which is usually harmless on its own. Sure, his siblings are super overprotective, too. But if he's got his mom in on it, too, there'll be no expense too large to find you."

Phichit nodded, "Yeah, the Nikiforovs have more money than God!"

Yuuri squeaked, "Then why would they want me for their son?"

Isabella shrugged, "Viktor's their first-born. He's the most spoiled of them all. You're what he wants; I don't think Ana and Gustav know how to say no to Viktor about anything. I wouldn't be surprised if there's private investigators on you now. Which is probably why he's in New York right now with his entire posse."

"H—he's in New York?" Yuuri blanched. "What, but, why?" – It wasn't like Yuuri had reason to panic, in spite of Isabella's warning. New York City was _still_ a large city and Viktor made rounds in social circles far too ritzy for Yuuri.

"Mila said they're going to attend Leo de la Iglesia's party this weekend. They just touched down an hour ago. Viktor has already asked J.J. to have dinner," she frowned. "I swear, if he wasn't so pretty, I'd punch Viktor in the face for trying to use my husband to get to me to get to you. But don't worry: He won't get peep out of me. Or Phichit. He's going, too."

"Phichit," Yuuri growled, warningly.

"I just want a selfie with Viktor. I need more Instagram followers. I made sure to delete any information that could lead to you!"

"You don't think he's going to pressure you into saying too much?" Yuuri sighed. "I guess it's a good thing I'm leaving back for Detroit tomorrow. Alright, let's get to work. Leo should be here any minute now to go over the final changes…"

XVII.

Isabella had to admit Viktor Nikiforov knew how to wine and dine people.

"I told him you guys have his information, and probably could now track him in Detroit," Isabella said, primly cutting into her steak. She chewed thoughtfully, checking her phone periodically to read over J.J.'s messages. J.J. had had an emergency at work, something with the Fall line samples, and needed to skip dinner, leaving her and Phichit to deal with Viktor alone.

(And she was slowly confirming that Viktor was more dangerous than the wine, with how he seemed to have a special talent for loosening people's tongues.)

"And he still didn't want to contact me?" Viktor spoke in staccato-like pauses, rolling the wine in his glass. He was dressed in his dark blue Ermenegildo Zegna, a favorite for dining at Del Frisco's Double Eagle Steakhouse. He looked out pensively, past the metal banister to the number of tables littering the first floor.

"Don't take it personally," Phichit reached for his own glass, taking a long sip. "Yuuri's shy and naturally very anxious. This is all a lot. You're, uh, a lot."

"Hm. Sounds like it is very personal, then," Viktor gave them his signature smile, taking a small sip of his drink. Phichit noted Viktor hadn't even touched his food. "But he's still here? In New York? – Maybe if we just saw each other in person, we could talk and he would see I'm not, I'm not like those videos all the time."

"I said I wouldn't talk about it beyond that, Vitya," Isabella cut him off curtly. "Yuuri trusted us to have dinner with you. He _trusts_ us. I don't want to betray his trust."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of asking you to betray his trust."

"Yes, you would, don't lie to yourself," Isabella set her cutlery down. "Look, I feel for you, Vitya. I do. But I think it's time you considered letting him go. Things have gone really, really far. Yuuri's a nice guy. He's sweet, quiet, reserved, hard-working. He's not some drunk fantasy you get to keep parading around social media because you're infatuated. I'm worried you're going to inadvertently hurt him."

Phichit stayed quiet, listening to the conversation.

Viktor looked down at his plate: "I don't want to hurt him. I didn't mean to, if I did, but I also didn't mean to fall in love with him that night. And I get it if he doesn't feel the same, but I just need to see him one last time. Even if it's just to say I'm sorry."

Phichit slammed the table with an open palm: "That's it! Come on! Can we get the bill over here?"

Isabella balked, "what are you doing?"

"I'm looking out for Yuuri. He can't keep living like this and _you_ can't keep living your life like this. Something's gotta give and, apparently, the only rational person left is me, so even though he'll probably be pissed at me for weeks, I'm going to take you to Yuuri Katsuki, but you have to promise me, _promise_ , that you'll back off for good if he tells you to!"

Viktor scrambled to stand, already pulling out his wallet to flash his black American Express, "Oh Phichit, you're an angel! You bet! And if he doesn't, I promise you can be godfather to our first-born! Check, please!"

"I don't know that Chris will let you make Phichit godfather without a fight." Isabella rolled her eyes: "Forget it. Just go. I'm not going to be a part of this madness. Not to mention this is the _best_ steak in New York City. I'll pay the bill. Phichit, I expect live updates."

(Live updates was exactly what she got.

Phichit felt like the hero in a movie, rushing through New York City traffic in a sleek dark, Italian sports car courtesy of Viktor Nikiforov, who might not have had a license to drive in the United States.

He kept close tabs on the GPS, trying to direct Viktor to the Courtyard Marriot on 3rd street. While Isabella had offered her home to them, Phichit and Yuuri hadn't wanted to impose (especially knowing J.J.'s special brand of one-sided bromance with Viktor). By the time they had reached the Marriott, Viktor had practically skidded the car into two parking spots. He slammed the door closed behind him, rushing after Phichit who was halfway through ripping his wallet out to search for his keycard.

"I left him in our room sometime around 5 p.m. so he could nap. I really doubt he's still sleeping, but sometimes dance practice really takes it out of him, so just let me check on him first," he whispered, opening the door and sneaking inside through a small gap. Viktor nodded, not bothering to argue as he took a step back and rubbed the sole of his expensive Brunello Cucinelli lace-ups against the hotel's faded maroon carpet.

It only took Phichit a second to notice that Yuuri's bags were gone and that there was a note on Phichit's pillow:

 _Decided to take a flight out to Detroit tonight. I'll see you at home. -Yuuri_ )

XVIII.

The Detroit Metropolitan Airport only has one picture of Viktor Nikiforov.

It's an advertisement for Movado showing Viktor pushing up the sleeve of his suit jacket and crisp work shirt to show a couple of watches wrapped around his wrist. Showing off a sliver of skin shouldn't be so deliciously decadent, but Viktor makes it work with his fingers splayed over creamy alabaster skin. In the fluorescent light spotlighting behind the screen of the advertisement, his platinum head of hair looks almost like halo, reminding Yuuri that, to the world, Viktor is almost ethereal and otherworldly and almost untouchable.

As he picks up his bag from the conveyer belt, Yuuri reminds himself of the fact that he has touched without guilt (and still remembers the feeling of silk fabric and strong muscle in between dream-like flashes of consciousness). He has been close enough to taste Viktor's breath and confirm he was flesh.

The last couple of months have also shown the world that Viktor is a person. A nice person, who answers people on Twitter and thanks people on Instagram for making memes out of his personal struggle.

But as he walks towards the exit of the airport, the Movado advertisement haunts him. This is the image of Viktor that has been shadowing over Yuuri for weeks now, too.

It's an image (of model and trust-fund baby Viktor Nikiforov) that feels so far removed from the videos that make him laugh, hand pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound and keep from waking Phichit; the videos showing Viktor singing off-tune and having fun with his siblings and friends (even as he puts on an affronted face and pout to depict forlorn love and want). There's a veiled element of performance in Viktor's every movement. Yuuri has tried to feign annoyance, held steadfast to the weight on his brow like a crux, only for it to be in vain, because just as there are the videos that spark the memes that annoy Yuuri, there are the videos that have Viktor stripping himself layer by layer for Yuuri (with the rest of the world acting as voyeurs to his one-sided conversation):

 _When I was six, I fell and got this nasty scar, see?_ _This is my dog, Makkachin, isn't he the cutest? I hope you're not allergic to dogs and that you like poodles. I went ice skating yesterday. There were a lot of couples around. I wished you were there with me so I could hold your hand, but then it hit me that I don't even know if you know how to ice skate or not. So, if you don't, wait for me, okay? I want to teach you. When I was little, I really thought I could be a professional figure skater…_

It comes like an onslaught of emotions. And Yuuri thinks back to the night of Isabella's wedding, how Viktor let himself be stripped of decorum and dignity that night, too; how he let Yuuri sandwich him with Phichit because he'd been too shy to dance with Viktor alone; and how when Yuuri had looked into his eyes – the only vague memory he has of seeing blue – Viktor had given Yuuri full permission to come inside and peek around his consciousness, and what he'd found was hazy, sleepy, drunk, honest, all-consuming affection.

Affection for a stranger. A stranger who had drunkenly staggered into a hotel room with his expensive suit jacket and, thereafter, never bothered to return it, much less tell anyone who had the power to do it.

Yuuri hated to admit to himself that he was probably just as bad as Viktor, only less honest in his infatuation.

Viktor was willing to make a fool of himself for love.

Yuuri, apparently, hid his affections in his closet (and under his bed), only pulling out Viktor's jacket for comfort (and for the smell of expensive cologne) on times when the videos left him feeling particularly alone and emotionally aroused.

When his phone rang, he decided it was best to pick up.

"Phichit," Yuuri sighed, resting the phone against his shoulder as he hefted the strap of his bag higher up his other shoulder. He rolled his bag behind him, walking out of the airport to flag a cab. "I'm fine. I'm safe. The airline called and said they were looking for someone to go on an earlier flight to free up overbooked seats and offered a really nice compensation package, so I took it. Look, I'm so—you, you tried to bring him right to me? Phichit, you promised. Uh-huh. I know you thought you meant well, but—"

He squinted behind his glasses, vaguely making out in the distance that there was a blond woman holding up a sign with his name. She made eye contact with him and beamed, practically jumping to get his attention and waving towards her sign.

"Uh, Phichit, I need to go. I'll call you in a bit."

No one, not even Minako, knew he'd come back early. But the area was well-lit and there were plenty of people around waiting for their rides, so Yuuri approached slowly.

"Yuuri!" the woman dropped the sign to the floor, wrapping her arms around him to bring him into a warm hug. "Oh, just look at you! You're even more handsome in person. No wonder Vitya is so smitten."

"I'm sorry, but," Yuuri took a step back. "Do we know each other?"

"Not yet, but we will soon. I'm Ana Nikiforova. Viktor's mother. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of setting up an earlier flight for you and that I got us a car to get you home. But we can also stop to get some food, if you're hungry. I know those short one-hour flights can be the worst during meal times," she was already halfway through linking their arms together. She steered him gently towards a limo in the distance. "I love my Vitya, but he can be terribly overwhelming! – Oh, dear, are you okay? You're looking a little pale…"

Yuuri planted his feet firmly on the ground: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Nikiforov, but I'm confused as to why you're here. In Detroit."

"That's a very good question," she paused, familiar blue eyes studying him. She looked so much like Viktor, or, really, Viktor looked so much like her. It was probably why he was so beautiful. "Yuuri! I'd like to offer you a quarter of a million dollars to move to St. Petersburg and let Vitya properly court you into becoming part of our family!"

XIX.

Otabek Altin was confused when Leo de la Iglesia (Grammy winner for Album of the Year, and his boss for the evening,) approached him by the DJ tower. Since Otabek was only eighteen, he needed an escort to move from his spot. He had scheduled breaks to monitor he wouldn't participate in any under-aged drinking. This was not one of his breaks.

Leo had hired Otabek for his birthday party, which he was hosting in a ritzy New York scene club with a dangerously sharp guest list, including Viktor Nikiforov, accompanied (only _naturally_ ) by his (half-dressed) best friend Christophe Giacometti and his (flirty younger) sister Mila. The three were sipping on cocktails in their own private VIP lounge, overlooking the rest of the party attendees.

Yuri, who was still too young to be reasonably allowed into an American club, texted Otabek periodically from his hideout in the Ritz Carlton ( _Beka, look at the cats!_ ) to check on his dear brother ( _Did you see the cats? I'm so fucking bored!_ _If Viktor was being an idiot, you'd tell me, right?_ ) and poke gentle fun at his sister's selfies ( _She's making the duck lips again. Mom says she's gonna get wrinkles early on all around her mouth. Ha!_ ).

Apparently, at some point, the Crispino twins had joined Viktor and company, only for Viktor's bodyguards to prevent Leo from entering with them.

(While Viktor's entire posse and the whole Internet knew of his obsession with #Searching4Yuuri, it seemed his bodyguards had missed the memo (along with any concept of pop culture, because, again, Leo de la Iglesia was more a household name than Viktor Nikiforov, and yet, somehow, he was being denied entry into the VIP lounge at his own party) about their boss' priorities in life, and the invitation he'd received to the party.)

So Otabek took an early break, leaving the back-up DJ to keep spinning while he escorted Leo to the second-floor. His phone kept buzzing in his pocket as he gave Viktor's bodyguards a nod. Instantly, the two men stepped aside, parting to give Otabek entry, but paused as Leo attempted to follow. Otabek rolled his eyes: "He's with me. He's here to see Viktor."

"Yeah, him and the rest of the world, he can get in line."

"But this is his party," Otabek whispered, slow and deep. He wrapped a hand around Leo's arm, pulling him inside. "Besides, he's the first person that might actually have good news about Yuuri."

The bodyguards gave him a blank look, so Otabek spoke louder: "As in, _Yuuri_ , Viktor's _Yuuri_. Yuuri Katsuki?"

"Yuuri Katsuki?" Chris stood behind the guards, a fresh drink in his hand as he stared them down. "We don't mention that name around Viktor anymore. Since, two days ago, or maybe yesterday. I'm a little buzzed. I can't remember."

Leo blanched, "But I have a letter from Yuuri. I promised to deliver it two days ago, but then I got really caught up with the party and other things. I've been texting Viktor non-stop to tell me his room number and he never replied, so I figured I'd give it to him now, but you're saying he doesn't want to hear anything about Yuuri Katsuki anymore?"

"Sacre bleu," Chris groaned, grabbing Otabek and Leo by the arms to pull them inside. "They're with me. I swear, that letter better have gold-leafing or something magical. He's been depressed for days. He tried going to Yuuri's room in New York. Imagine Viktor Nikiforov setting foot in a Courtyard Marriott for love. Only to find Cinderella has run off again back to Detroit!"

"Yuuri's shy," Leo replied, following behind Chris as they climbed a short set of stairs to the private lounge. "And your friend is a lot to handle."

"Yes, well," Chris sighed, "at least he's honest about his emotions. Your friend seems to have some serious issues. Who doesn't just pick up the phone and say, 'hey, I'm not interested?' People deserve closure. What they shared that night was incredibly intimate and romantic."

Leo flushed pink, "I thought Yuuri said he got almost blackout drunk and started using Viktor like a pole."

"Like I said, very romantic," Chris nodded, "Everyone, look who I found!"

Sara Crispino squealed, jumping up and down on her chair, "Oh my gosh, Leo de la Iglesia! Happy birthday! I love all your music! And so does Mickey, don't you, Mickey?" – Mickey only grunted in reply, trying to ignore the fact that his sister was fawning over another singer.

"Happy birthday, Leo. Thanks for coming to my party," Viktor whispered, looking out towards the distant strobe lights. The pinks and blues reflected off his dark sunglasses. It was obvious he'd commandeered the bottle of Cristal in his hand and was just drinking straight from the bottle while lying like a listless rag doll. No one could deny Viktor knew how to speak with his body, even if he only spoke of sadness.

Otabek frowned, "it's Leo's party, not yours."

"Uh, yeah," Leo kept an uncomfortable smile on his face, kind as ever. Viktor looked lost.

"It's not my party?" Viktor asked his sister, who shook her head and brought his head to rest on her shoulder. "Oh. Sorry, Leo, everything's been a hazy blur since Yuuri... I'm a little bit not myself ever since he rejected me. You might have noticed that #Searching4Yuuri hasn't had any new content in the last couple of days…"

"Right, Yuuri," Leo slipped a hand into his pocket. "Look, I'm so sorry. He had to make a trip back to Detroit. We had dinner, since he wasn't going to be able to make it to my party, and he asked me to deliver something to you, but then I got too busy."

Viktor sat up, taking off his sunglasses to study the envelope thrust in front of him. He reached for it tentatively. Mila wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her chin on his shoulder as she waited for him to open the letter.

"He wrote to you, Vitya," Mila spoke in soft, encouraging tones. "He had to leave, but he decided to leave you something. Isn't that good? Why don't you open it?"

"W—what if he's just telling me to leave him alone?" Viktor's bottom lip wibbled, and Mila exchange a soft look with Chris, who knelt down to squeeze Viktor's knee.

"Then we burn the letter and get smashed tonight and find you someone else," Chris smiled, encouragingly. "We're here for you. Even Mickey."

Viktor nodded, ripping the letter open only to find some hotel stationary with scribbles:

 _Hi Viktor,_

 _I'm Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki. I don't remember all the details, but I think I might have danced with you at Isabella's wedding and maybe done a couple of inappropriate things to you, which I was thinking of apologizing for, but I think you sort of liked it (?), so I don't want to insult you with an apology for a situation you don't think merits one. I know I've been very quiet these last three months, but I have watched every single video you put out there. So, since I now seem to know so much about you, here's a little about me._

 _I have an MA in Marketing and I'm a dance instructor at a studio in Detroit, Michigan, where I used to teach a ballet class and a hip hop class. I had to drop those classes once I became a meme, but I'm now an okay pole dancing instructor. Dancing isn't a very stable career, but it's paying the bills okay right now. I even have a nice little apartment I'm sharing with Phichit. We co-parent three hamsters._

 _I suffer from anxiety, have always been really shy, and new people can make me nervous. I don't have any scars. I've always kept mostly to myself and tried to be really safe, I guess, but more likely it's because I was born in Hasetsu, Japan, where nothing really ever happens. Hasetsu does have a nice ice skating rink, though, so I learned to skate when I was little, and I think it would be nice to hold hands with you, though maybe not on the ice. I'm clumsy. I'm not sure I'll remember or have room to answer every question you asked me, but I do love dogs, especially poodles. I have a poodle, too. His name is Vicchan, named after some character in an anime I really liked called Victor. Vicchan is nowhere near as big as Makkachin, who is really cute, by the way._

 _I don't know if after reading all this, you'll still be interested in me. Maybe now that you've found me, you'll get bored. But at least I know I am very much interested in you. Maybe if you're okay with me being a little more jittery and a lot less suave, you can come to Detroit and we can talk (and maybe I can dance with you for real). No videos, though._

 _(XXX) XXX - XXXX_

 _Yuuri_

(Mila simply beamed, giving Chris and the others a thumbs-up: "I've got a brother-in-law, you guys! And he loves poodles!"

Otabek simply sighed, pulling out his phone to text Yuri.)

XX.

"I still can't believe you turned his mother down," Minako hefted the grocery bags with a groan as she followed behind Yuuri down the hallway. Isabella was visiting Detroit, having decided to come back with Phichit from New York to spend a little time away from J.J. during his most stressful week at work. It was August. And his fall fashion line was on the rocks. Yuuri had decided they might as well enjoy a nice dinner at home on her first day. Minako, of course, had been invited in thanks for taking care of the resident poodle and hamsters.

"Maybe he can't either. Or, he really did find me so boring that he decided to give up," Yuuri sighed, setting his bags on the ground to pull out his keys. He didn't want to admit that it hurt a little. Yuuri hadn't heard a word from Viktor since he'd had Leo deliver his letter, and there was nothing on the web now, either. Not even a goodbye video, just comments littering every single one of Viktor's social media pages asking if he'd finally given up or found Yuuri. Well, Yuuri knew one of those was wrong, leaving only the other option. "Either way, those hashtags are dead now, so I guess I can at least go back to work."

He pushed the door open, only to stand frozen with his hand on the knob. Minako bounced off his back, "hey, careful, I've got the wine bottles—oh my god, it's like a flower shop exploded in here!"

She wasn't wrong. Yuuri's apartment was filled to the brim with flower vases and bouquets.

He nodded, mouth dry as he managed to focus his eyes and finally notice that Viktor Nikiforov was standing in the middle of his living room with his (tiny, adorable) friendly little poodle in his arms licking at his face: "Yuuri!" Viktor laughed, trying to get the dog to calm down, "Your poodle likes me! Not surprising, really. They call me the Poodle Whisperer for a reason."

(And Yuuri knew only too well about that because The Happy Poodle Regimen was a staple in Yuuri's bookshelf. It was almost ironic that it would have been written by Viktor and Makkachin Nikiforov.)

Minako set the bags on the ground: "So, I'm going to assume dinner is canceled. I'll see you at work tomorrow, Yuuri! Bye!"

The door slammed close behind him and then Yuuri heard them. Phichit and Isabella's squealing noises resonated from Phichit's bedroom, and Yuuri glared at the locked door.

"You know I can hear you!" Yuuri shouted, crossing his arms petulantly.

"Oh, right!" Phichit replied (and didn't even bother to sound sheepish).

"Don't worry!" Isabella chorused, as the door to the bedroom opened. She dragged Phichit out, holding tight to his hand as they pretended (unsuccessfully) to sneak out through a small trail in between the sofa and the flower pots and vases littered everywhere. Both kept squealing, only taking a break to say, almost simultaneously, "We'll just be leaving now to give you two time alone (to, you know, talk and stuff, stuff, _ah_!)."

It was like dealing with teenagers, especially Phichit, who wasted no time in taking Vicchan from Viktor's arms to "take him on a walk." Right.

"You're both fired as my friends," Yuuri pouted.

"Okay," Isabella sing-songed, grinning, "just as long as we're friends again in time for the wedding. But even if we're not, I'm sure Viktor will invite us."

Viktor seemed completely unperturbed, moving at almost lightning speed to gather Yuuri into a desperate hug, pressing him tight against his chest and breathing in the smell of his hair (which should have been creepy, if not for the fact that it was Viktor, and he smelled like the expensive, deliciously masculine cologne that made Yuuri a little punch drunk).

"Uh, hi, Viktor. Welcome to Detroit? Ah, how many flowers did you order?" Yuuri asked, squinting to make out the shape of daisies in the distance, right by the kitchen sink.

"I don't know. I just told them to fill up the apartment," he finally pulled away to admire his handy work and (with a scrunched-up nose) announced, "They really didn't do a very good job, though." Viktor stalked over to the small trail left by the (obviously very rational) florists for the purposes of walking around the apartment. "See? There's empty space here! And do I see a single petal? No. Completely unacceptable. I'm sorry, malysh. I'll personally make sure they do it right next time."

"Next time?! – No, no, no, it's all good. Don't trouble yourself!" Yuuri spluttered, managing (but barely so) to dip under Viktor's arms to avoid another crushing hug. He tried to juggle his way towards his bedroom: "I really hope they didn't fill up my room, too."

"Of course not. I explicitly told them to just fill the bed with rose petals," Viktor pouted, rubbing the sole of his shoe against the ground (and Yuuri froze at the potential implication). "I wouldn't make such an amateur mistake in courting you, lapochka."

"Courting me?" Yuuri blanched. He'd thought they'd grab coffee, maybe eat a sandwich while walking around Detroit. Yuuri hadn't said anything about courting. But there it was, that word again. Viktor's mother had also used it. "Have you talked to your mother recently? I think I had that conversation with her already."

Viktor waved him off, "Ah yes. I'm so sorry about that. Mama is very protective. I think she thought I was moving to St. Petersburg for good and figured it'd be easier on everyone if we just had you move, too, but my permanent residence is in Paris. Not that I mind moving to Detroit. It's a nice little city. And the prices are incredibly cheap. It'll take me a little bit to find something stable, but for now, we're neighbors!"

"Neighbors?" Yuuri stretched out a shaky hand to anchor himself against the wall. "Viktor, you can't just move to Detroit! You can't just move into my apartment complex!"

"Why not?" Viktor took a couple of steps forward, crowding Yuuri against the wall to admire the soft blush brushing over Yuuri's round cheeks. He let his knuckles rest gently against Yuuri's face. "Yuuri, now that I've found you, I have no intention of being away from you ever again."


End file.
